Before you are even really awake, before alertness has settled down into your mind, walk outside. Walk barefoot. Walk out onto the deck, down the stairs, down onto the grass. Walk over the rocks and the leaves, toes gripping and teasing and finding their way against bugs and dirt and twigs. You are looking for avocados. You are collecting the fruit of last night’s drop. If there was a wind, there will be exponentially more, but even without a wind, you will tuck at least five sun-warmed orbs of avocado into your night shirt, their heat beginning to awaken you from slumber.
This is the way to wake up. This is the way I woke up on Maui, our home surrounded by sixty foot avocado trees that bore fruit so big it was aptly dubbed a football avocado. But we had other varietals, too, none of them properly known or classified, all of them distinct. Smooth skin, thin skin, pebbly skin, thick skin, greenish-black skin, kelly green skin. Huge pit, tiny pit, medium pit. Watery, creamy, buttery, salty, sweet, flavorless. Firmness like a golf ball, give like a tennis ball, softness like a ripe lemon. Pale yellow, lightest green, bright emerald. Tiny like eggs, round like wiffle balls, giant like footballs.